Another's Treasure
by Slainteru
Summary: One person's trash is another's treasure, they say.
1. 飞行到法国

**Another's Treasure.**

**X**

**I do not own Harry Potter characters, blah blah blah. I do not own any music that may be recommended here.  
>I own this plot, though. I won't lie, I don't know where it will go, but if you leave me some reviews and suggestions, that would be very helpful!<strong>

**Enjoy!**

**X **

If there is one thing bred by airports, it is chaos. Oh, everything is orderly and there are steps one must take to secure transport through the clouds, there is no mistake. However, it is in this order that little sparks of a chaotic element are struck. For one, there are _people_. So many human beings, lined up and impatient, hurrying to make a flight that they must board two hours from their present time. A small mistake happens – perhaps someone types in the wrong destination, perhaps a passport is forgotten in the recesses of a rucksack – and the individual at fault faces the animosity of the line. One who takes too long with the security line is scrutinized with a judgmental eye, and one who is lost is smiled at with a smile that does not quite reach the eyes of the already tired and exasperated information officials, security officers, and attendants.

The next is language. Rarely, if ever, are people in any airport speaking the same language. If the tongue is the same, the dialect is different. Communication is a hazard; better to know what you are doing instead of speaking to others. It is much safer, anyways, as you can never tell which words will anger another. You may speak the same words, but the meanings will be different for each person you communicate with. Internationally speaking, if the only language you know is English (or, to the uninformed masses, "American"), then for all intents and purposes, you are both saved and made the laughingstock of the terminal. Multilingual is the new black.

The only time you are allowed to take a breath and relax is when you are in your assigned seat on the aircraft heading towards your destination. Until then, a spine of steel and a general apathy to anyone who is not an official is required for survival. (And remember: the way you mock people is similar to the way they mock you.)

It was with this frame of mind that we found one Hermione Granger. Her mood, already foul due to the task she had to accomplish, was not helped by her mental state.

_Of all the inane, silly, useless things…_she thought, twisting her simple gold wedding band as she looked around without really seeing her surroundings. The line was long already, despite the flight's red-eye departure of four in the morning. Like herself, the many occupants of the line were less-than-joyful about their travel arrangements, and had no issue with voicing these displeasures in mutters that were meant to be heard.

The main question was, why couldn't this visit be made by the man responsible? Why was Bill so afraid of being honest with his wife, to whom he definitely owed an explanation? It was absolutely not fair to ask his in-law to make a journey for an explanation that he should be man enough to give.

Hermione sighed then, asking herself for the n-th time why she couldn't just Apparate. She was powerful enough to make the journey. It would exhaust her thoroughly, but given her past, she figured that the fatigue would be survivable.

"_But Bill already paid for the flight! - Don't know why, when he could just Apparate over, or use the Portkey - but he did, so why not put his purchase to good use?"_

"_Ronald, while that is an admirable view, don't you think it would be easier to get a refund and just use magic?"_

"_Muggles do refunds, too?"_

And so here she was, getting her ticket – the clerk at the counter was thoroughly confused as to why William Weasley was a female, but a Confundus charm cleared that right up – and steeling herself for a journey that could only end horribly.

There was only so much one could do when informing one's brother-in-law's wife that said brother-in-law had run away with someone else during an annual familial visit on the wife's part.

On the upside, this flight gave Hermione a chance for real peace and quiet. Being married into the Weasley family, she had forsaken anything resembling 'peace' and 'quiet.' _It had probably been written into the wedding vows_. Though Ron and Hermione inhabited a small home in the Northamptonshire country, it was often filled with other Weasleys, most often Harry and Ginny as well as Molly and Arthur. George would drop by for catching up every other week, but oftentimes he informally came by to test-run a product and get Hermione's expert opinion on any magically technical faults the creation may have. Charlie had visited once, bringing with him 'his baby.' The infant was, in fact, a Chinese Fireball hatchling. Hermione and Ron had spent weeks after trying to salvage their walls and roof. Bill and Fleur were more rare a sight, as their jobs took them just about everywhere, leaving next to no time for house calls. As philosophies went, the Weasleys were very family-centric: hurt one, and the entire clan would descend in a hurricane of fiery-haired temper. Marry one, and you marry the entirety of the Weasley line.

Sometime around the second year that she had had with Ron, she had realized that she barely had time to think, barely had room to listen to her thoughts. It was then that she began working in time for herself, taking solitary walks along the Nene River during the early morning. The walks lasted from thirty minutes to an hour. Now she was on an aeroplane with four hours, alone.

_Me, Myself, and I, _she thought, a small grin breaking over her face. The thought lasted her through the long wait at the flight gate, and well into the first hour in the air.

There is a certain peace that comes with being a few ten thousand feet above the rest of humanity. After the initial pressure of g-force and the almost rollercoaster tickle of taking off, there is something almost freeing about watching the rest of the world and its problems vanish underneath perfectly white clouds. With only the hum of the aeroplane and the rising sun to keeping one company, it is easy to forget that the world (Muggle and magical) can be an Azkaban of a place. One needs not think of what happens on the ground when one is being privy to the secret beauty of flying. It is not so much a break from reality as it is a change in perspective.

"_Does she know I'm coming?"_

"_Er…maybe? I think I told her that you'd be popping over."_

"_RON. Popping implies Apparation, which I am not doing. You know what," she stopped his retort – or apology – with an annoyed decision. "I will arrive and whether you inform her or not, I am Apparating from the airport to her place."_

"_You know the address?"_

"…" _She hated when he made a valid point._

After breezing through customs, which in her humble opinion should have been renamed "Introduction to Confundus," Hermione stood waiting with her travel suitcase and her purse. Peering above the heads of the other passengers was beginning to wear on her stiff legs, and she began to wonder if it was possible to Apparate to the side of a person, and not a geographical place. Theoretically, it was plausible. Think of the person, and a surface underneath their feet, and voila! Though, that kind of Apparation could lead to less than appropriate situations_._

_I could, given this theory, Accio that witch over here…_The pure evil of her idea amused her. 'Pure evil' referring, of course, to the mental image of a platinum blonde woman hurtling headfirst through the crowded airport at a mere summon reserved for non-sentient beings. Naturally, as soon as that thought had left its print upon her mind, what should she spy but the almost white hair of Fleur Delacour. As the Veela woman was quite a ways away, it was just her hair, for now, that made her stand out. Upon closing in on her quarry, Hermione noted that the French woman looked genuinely pleased to see her, making her "mission" just a little more difficult.

_Nobody likes the messenger._

"Bonjour, 'Ermione!"

"Salut, Fleur!" The older woman pulled Hermione into a friendly hug, her cerulean eyes sparkling. She took the Englishwoman's bag ("'Ermione, you are my guest, allow me to take care of you accordingly.") and soon the two were inside a comfortably styled apartment. Hermione thought she smelled freshly baked cookies, but a quick peek into the modest kitchen left of the door proved her to be wrong. Her stomach voiced it's displeasure at the olfactory lie.

"But Fleur, this is an _apartment_, what if people saw you leave and then see you step out of the door? Won't it raise questions?"

"Ah, cherie. Zis particular complex is full of witches and wizards, so secrecy…it is not necessary." Hermione stared, impressed. She couldn't help but think aloud:

"That makes sense, there must be many magical communities wherein the same thing happens. Is the person who owns the buildings a Muggle?"

"Non, 'e is a Squib. Quite a nice man, actually. Relaxed about ze rent, but 'e knows when to be, ah, _assertive._ Zere was zis one resident," she began, chuckling a little at the memory long past. She paused there, and after a glance at her guest, offered food.

"'Ermione, did zey serve you anyzing on ze flight over?" Hermione shook her head. "Mon dieu! And 'ere I've been running my mouth, while you stand zere tired and 'ungry. Zat is unforgiveable and I shall fix it immediately! What are you in ze mood to eat, cherie?"

"Erm..." Truth be told, Hermione didn't know what she wanted, and the question had taken her by surprise. "Food?"

Fleur stared at her, frowning in concentration.

"Well, I 'ave not 'ad breakfast yet, would you care to join me? I don't 'ave much, but I 'ave been told zat I make vairy decent omelettes. If zat is not to your liking, I can whip up a batch of crepes. Ozzerwise, I 'ave cereal and milk."

Hermione answered that she would very much like an omelette, please. Fleur smiled, and began fussing around the kitchen, all the while apologizing for her ineptitude as hostess. The younger witch was still a little shell-shocked from the pure surprise of the question, which was probably the result of her distraction by the apartment. From what she could see, standing in the "front hall," was a small kitchenette to her left, and beyond that a room with a black sofa, television, and glass coffee table. A counter holding a spice rack and a bowl of fruit separated the two. On the wall behind the sofa was a Muggle photo depicting separate buildings painted in a way that altogether, they formed a gigantic face. To the left of the living room – that must be what it was – was a closed door. _Fleurs room,_ Hermione hazarded a guess. Vaguely, she wondered where the bathroom was.

"Would you like some water? Milk? Coffee? Tea?" The woman in question's voice cut through the younger witch's observations.

"Coffee, please." Came the distracted reply.

"Et s'il vous plaits, 'Ermione, feel free to get comfortable. We are family, non?"

_Now would be as good a time as any, you know, _a nagging voice sounded in her head. For the sake of politeness, and because her stomach protested the potential loss of food, Hermione nodded and held her tongue with a smile.

_Hypocrite._


	2. 早饭

**Another's Treasure**

**X**

**Uhm, so first off, insert my disclaimer about not owning anything but the plot.**

**Secondly, the story will proceed very slowly. Many apologies, but I am A) a student, so academics come first, and B) currently soaking up everything about Chinese culture in the gorgeous Guanxi Provence. Expect some Chinese to appear somewhere.**

**Thirdly, as I am way too lazy and impatient to wait on a beta, I rely on you, gentle reader, for constructive criticism. So, please, hit that little "Review Story" button at the bottom.**

**Happy reading!**

**X**

For many, breakfast is not a time for speaking of any sort, much less mild banter. It is a more somber affair, much like that of a funeral, wherein speaking is generally frowned upon. Unless one is a "morning person," and has the miraculous ability to form something resembling a coherent sentence, normal breakfast behaviour involves nothing more than greeting grunts, bowls of cereal, and whatever-colour-you-take-it coffee. Whether it is because facing the day is something dreaded or simply the human reaction to the fading fog of sleep, breakfast is usually the time to either mourn the loss of slumber or to bask in deceptively peaceful silence before leaving for a job.

Breakfast lack-of-interaction is not just a Muggle phenomenon, however. People were people, and breakfast was breakfast - regardless of magical ability, or lack thereof. Were any of Fleur's friends to pop in - not that they would, seeing as seven in the morning is not exactly the most opportune time for social calls - they would be surprised at the easy banter flowing between Fleur and the English witch.

Hermione, however, saw the idle chatting as something of a warm-up. Flexing her vocabulary muscles, she quickly went over what she was going to tell Fleur, and looked for the gentlest words to use to break the unpleasant news. She ignored perfect opportunities for a smooth segue in favour of continuing her warm-up. Also, Fleur had not been lying about her skill in the kitchen, and the English witch wanted to finish the ambrosia on her plate _before_ delivering Bill's message. Her dallying was not unnoticed, though. Fleur set down her mug, and folded her hands before cutting straight to the chase.

"'Ermione, as pleasant as eet is to see you, I 'ave a feeling zat you came 'ere for a reason and not just for a visit? You, of all my extended family, are ze least likely to drop by for a visit." Her tone was gentle, her words matter-of-fact.

"I, err," Hermione, thrown off and very impressed by the witch's straight-forwardness, babbled for a second before setting down her fork, taking a deep breath, and composing herself. "You are not incorrect, Fleur. I have regrettable news, and unfortunately, it happens to concern and affect you directly." The formality of her words would have seemed adorable in their nervousness, were it not for the gravity of the situation.

The French witch frowned, waiting for her sister-in-law to continue.

"I am very sorry to have to inform you that your - uhm, _Bill _has been unfaithful."

Her mounting tension had turned her speech into something that became more and more formal, as though she were announcing an official Ministry decree. There was silence at the table, and Hermione braced herself for the worst possible reaction. Fleur took a deep breath, sat back in her chair with folded arms, and calmly asked for an explanation. The only sign of any sort of distress was a slight frown that wrinkled her forehead.

"Ah, well…" Hermione sputtered again for a little while. "I do not know the entirety of it, but it seems that he has run away with…with someone, to parts unknown."

_Molly had appeared on Ron and Hermione's doorstep, absolutely livid. A piece of parchment was clutched in her white-knuckled hand, and she waved it in front of the couple's face before reading it aloud:_

"_To my dearest Family, I cannot lie to you any longer. My marriage is a sham, and it is selfish of me to pretend otherwise. I have found true love, and will probably have left the country with him by the time you receive this note. Please know that I love you all, and have not done this to hurt anybody, though in my cowardice I do not doubt that I have. All my love, Bill. PS, Would one of you let Fleur know, and make sure that she is all right? I do care deeply for her; I just do not love her."_

_When she finished, there was silence._

_Bill had been a little bit melodramatic in his confession, Hermione felt. However, it was not her place to declare such sentiments, especially not to an already irate Molly Weasley._

"_Did either of you know about this?" she screeched, eliciting winces along with swift declarations of innocence. The next hour had been spent comforting the old witch, who had held a great many hopes for Bill and Fleur. _

When Hermione finished telling the story, Fleur's demeanor had not changed at all. She was still calm, silent, and frowning.

"Fleur, I _am_ really sorry about this mess. If you need to yell at someone, or just talk, I'm here for you."

She was absolutely floored to see an amused smirk appear on the blonde's face.

"So, Bill 'as finally gone with Raoul? À propos du temps de damné! I was starting to get worried zat 'e wasn't serious about ze man." For the third time that morning, Hermione sputtered.

"Wha- buh- you- he- what?" Her inarticulate response earned a chuckle.

"William was not lying in 'is note, 'Ermione. Our marriage is un trompe-l'oeil, and zough 'e loves me and I love 'im, we are not _in love._ Wiz each ozzer, at least," the French witch trailed off, eyes drawn to the ring on her finger. A moment passed where her face became inscrutable, like peering at ones eyes in lake water and only seeing The facial expression she bore was one of silent musing, and Hermione wished to interrupt and ask her what was going on in her mind. Instead, she followed the situational "script:"

"Fleur, what did that last part, 'with each other, at least,' mean?"

"I am in love wiz somebody who is not William, 'Ermione." Fleur's tone was that of a patient mother teaching her child that two plus two does, in fact, equal four.

"Then who…?" She trailed off as assumption posing as realization slapped her six ways to Sunday. "Oh great Merlin, you're in love with Harry!" Ignoring the look of confusion, surprise, and amusement that she received, Hermione began her (seemingly) age-old tirade: Harry was very much in love with Ginny, and she with him; they were married for crying out loud, it probably wasn't even love Fleur felt but an infatuation with his fame and the power he had acquired during and after destroying Voldemort, and with his hero complex wasn't even worth the trouble anyways unless you liked that sort of thing. She was silenced by Fleur's voice, which overrode hers with a power that Hermione hadn't thought possible. That the witch's hands had grasped her own had escaped her normally keen notice.

"Mon dieu, 'Ermione! I do not love 'Arry as anyzing more zan a dear brozzer-in-law! I am also not ze type to go breaking up a couple, as I zink zat eet is a selfish zing to do, especially if zey are as 'appy a pair as 'Arry and Ginevra. I must also confess zat I would feel an old maid, as 'Arry is also trois années my junior." The elder witch quickly removed her (rather soft) hands, as if only just realizing their placement.

Hermione fell silent, blood pounding in her face as she remembered that the Golden Trio were not the only inhabitants of Britain, and that not every woman was in love with Harry. _How embarrassing. _She looked down, aware that her blush deepened as she took in where Fleur had held her hands. Her voice was quiet:

"I'm sorry, Fleur. I shouldn't have assumed."

"Il n'a pas affaire, do not worry." An awkward moment passed before the quarter-Veela allowed a friendly smile. "Please, let us continue eating. Zis is a conversation zat is not worth cold food, and I will not have you report to your 'usband zat I allowed you to starve." A warm chuckle finished her sentence.

"That, Fleur, is a wonderful idea." Intriguing as discovering the details of Bill and Fleur's false marriage were, the food left uneaten was far more tantalizing.

"Mm, I have zem quite often, cherie. You shouldn't believe everyzing you 'ear about blondes, after all," she winked at the English witch, and was rewarded with a grin. For the rest of the meal, all conversation regarding the shocking news that was not apparently much of a shock was held back, and eventually forgotten as other topics took the spotlight.

X

Eventually, Hermione's eyes decided that it was time for her to retire for a brief nap. Red-eye flights have a tendency to inspire exhaustion. She had picked up her back and moved towards the sofa, not-so-subtly yawning. Fleur understood, and offered her room to the younger woman, opting for the (admittedly comfortable looking) couch. She left no room for argument, and soon Hermione found herself facing a simple yet stylish room – _like everything else here , _she thought, impressed.

The room held a queen-sized bed, pristinely made, in the far right corner. Light streamed gently in through a window, highlighting the foot-end of the bed. On top of the light sheets lay a book, while the table to the side held a small Muggle lamp and a glass of water. Right in front of Hermione stood a very full bookcase – authors from Auster to Zebrowski. The latter name surprised Hermione; she had not thought that the French witch would have heard of Muggle authors, much less enjoy the genre of science fiction. But there it was, The Killing Star, staring her straight in the face.

_Really, Hermione, what did you expect? Issue upon issue of Vogue? _For all her cleverness, the "brightest witch of her age" sometimes had to remind herself that to assume makes an "ass" of "u" and "me."

To the immediate right, a wardrobe; open slightly to reveal a mirror and several expensive-looking robes. The floor was carpeted, a soft quality both in colour and texture. Hermione couldn't help the soft moan as her feet sunk into the mattress-like structure beneath her.

_Floors…do not normally feel this good…_

The fact that the mere feeling of carpet had brought about a vocalization of pleasure convinced Hermione that sleep was desperately needed, regardless of location. Thankful that she still held her bag, the young witch allowed them to obey gravity, and simultaneously slipped out of her shoes. Shrugging her thin jacket onto the floor, she strode forwards and gracefully face planted into sheets that smelled faintly of soap and flowers.

She sleepily wondered whether she imagined the muffled sounds of a woman crying.

**X**

**Translations:**

**À propos du temps de damné! -**About damn time!

**un trompe-l'oeil -**a sham

**Books referenced: The Invention of Solitude by Paul Auster and The Killing Star by George Zebrowski.**


	3. 晚餐，眼泪，和日出

**Another's Treasure**

**X**

**Disclaimers! I own nothing except a computer, a Chinese textbook, and this plot.**

**Very many thanks to y'all who reviewed! Your support means a lot to me, and if it were a possibility, there would be hugs. Hugs for everyone! =D That said, please keep them coming! Each review is a day maker, as well as an opportunity to improve.**

**Also, insert the "this will take a while to update because of learning" speech here. **

**PS, this chapter tastes especially good with a nice side helping of Sara Bareilles' "Bluebird," and Sigur Ros' "All Alright."**

**Enjoy!**

**X**

Hermione awoke to the mouthwatering scent of…_something_. Despite her comfortable position under the covers, the detective inside of her was intrigued by the mysterious phantom that teased her nose with a tantalizing familiarity. Though her stomach was silent, her mind would not cease the incessant demand that she discover what she smelled. Her still-tired body protested, but only feebly. _Honestly, maybe all the hot air about cats and curiosity is true…death by exhaustion, all because a good scent came along._ With the sardonic thought lazily snaking its way through her mind, the witch rubbed her eyes to rid herself of sleeps cobwebs. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, allowing the momentum to jerk her body upwards, allowing her arms to assist her until she was sitting up. Allowing herself to wake up, she slowly shuffled to the door. Upon opening it, she was greeted by two cardboard boxes, grocery bags, and Fleur cooking something.

A quick glance at the clock told her that she had awoken five minutes prior to eight. At this exact point, Fleur turned from the stove, and flashed Hermione a smile.

"'Ermione! Vous êtes reveille! I was just making some dinner, would you like some?"

"Yes, please." She had, after all, woken up because of the scent wafting from the stove and throughout the apartment.

"Bon! Allow me to set you a place. Would you like anyzing to drink? Zere is water, wine, or milk."

"I'd like some water, please." As she took a seat at the counter-serving-as-a-table, a glass was filled by a Levitated pitcher of water. At a flick of Fleurs wand, dinner utensils waltzed across the table. The fork was twirling the spoon around, and was about to lead said spoon into a dip before the knife interrupted. The poor spoon was snatched up and led back into a circular waltz pattern. The now annoyed fork bent it's outermost prongs down in a variant on the much-favoured avian salute. The knife in turn made a grand show of dancing with the spoon. The three eating tools continued the antagonism for a couple more seconds before settling in their necessary places. A plate flew to neatly land between them in a perfect, non-dramatic bull's-eye. A smile tugged the corners of Hermione's mouth upwards.

"Where did you learn that spell?"

"Hmm? Which spell?"

"The one to make the utensils dance."

"Ah, zat one," a grin could be heard in the Frenchwoman's voice. "It is a fun variation on ze _tarantallegra_ 'ex. I found it while working in Spain."

"You were in Spain? When?" Hermione had not heard this detail at family gatherings; it had always been Bill going somewhere, Bill doing _this_ at _there_.

"About ze same time as 'arry and Ginevra's marriage, I was at a sister firm to Gringotts in Madrid. I wish I could 'ave been at ze wedding zough. I 'eard it was quite ze affair."

"Well, keeping in mind that it was the Boy Who Lived and the English Quidditch team's Keeper…" Fleur chuckled at that, and grabbed a few more ingredients to add to the mysterious Something she had cooking.

"Oui, ze most famous couple in all of Britain. 'Ow are zey, by ze way?"

From then until Fleur finished cooking, the talk revolved around the Weasleys who _weren't_ Bill. There were questions for each member, each answered in detail by Hermione, who, though lost in conversation, still clung to the curiosity of the dish her hostess had prepared. Finally, she found a gap in conversation, and pounced.

"Fleur, I was wondering what you were making. It smells very delicious, but I for the life of me cannot place it."

The French witch turned around, and scooped a spoonful of what looked like beef, mushrooms, and green peppers onto Hermione's plate. She then served herself, and sat, ready to explain.

"It is a recipe zat I discovered while trying to make William 'is favourite beef dish. Ze only difference is zat instead of bay leaf, I 'ad to substitute cilantro. 'Owever, it does not seem to 'urt ze dish, non?"

Cilantro had indeed not hurt the meal in any way; in fact, it only helped to enhance the rich flavour of the beef, and gave the mushrooms a new dimension in the realm of taste. The first bite passed Hermione's lips, and her world exploded. Eyes wide, she could not help but to continue eating the food before her.

"This-is-delicious!" she exclaimed, once her mouth was clear. Fleur seemed cheered by the sentiment, and politely began her portion of the food. They ate in a contented silence.

When at last the shadows had stretched long enough to cover the city in nighttime darkness, the two retired to their respective beds. The day had not been full of exploring the foreign city, but in both the women's opinions, there had been enough material for their subconscious' to mull over during REM.

XXX

Hermione felt her body regain consciousness, and realized that while she may still be trying to be asleep, she was fully awake. Only her eyes were closed. As if to make up for her blindness, her ears picked up the slight sounds that she associated with three in the morning: the odd sound of a car on the street, a faint rustle of the tenant above her room presumably turning over in his or her respective bed.

_It truly is intriguing, how much more one hears when one cannot see._ It was as if the judgments her eyes allowed her to cast were stripped away, only leaving the substance of words and sensations. She was experiencing the proof of life instead of just the testimony.

Thirst overcame her desire to stay in meditation, and her thoughts on eyesight vanished as the subjects in questioned fluttered open. Pale moonlight lit up the room, as if to guide her to the door. Shuffling into the kitchen, she began her search for the water pitcher. The crafty device was hidden inside the refrigerator, and Hermione tiredly smiled at its guile as she poured herself a cup. She turned, and almost dropped the cup in shock. If her vocal chords had not been dried from sleep, she was certain she would have gasped.

Fleur was sitting upright, and looked as though she were studying the coffee table with great concentration. The almost imperceptible shaking of her shoulders gave her away, however, as did the small and choked sounds that were held behind her pursed lips. The moon shone through the same windows, and gave her tear-stained face an almost shining quality.

"Fleur..?" Hermione ventured gently. Crying females were not exactly her forte, but she would do what she could for one who had been so generous to her. The French witch, startled, looked up before realizing the situation. Hastily, she rubbed at her face. _What's been seen cannot be unseen._

"'Er-'Ermione, mon dieu. Tu m'as fait peur." A wet chuckle followed the statement. "Désolé, did I wake you?" Her concern was touching.

"Not at all, I was thirsty so…" Hermione waved her hand at the fridge. "Fleur, are you alright?"

"Ah, oui, oui. Just…" A vague hand gesture was supposed to signify her meaning.

"Fleur…you're very bad at lying." The English woman knelt on the ground, slightly in front of her recently ex-sister-in-law, who looked at her with a watery smile.

"Je sais, je sais. I am just…upset. Zat 'e is gone, zat again I am alone, and zat 'e did not even stop by to retrieve 'is zings. 'E said 'e would."

"You knew this was going to happen?"

"Oui! I told you earlier, William and I were not married because we are in _love_, we were togezzer for convenience. It was _convenient_ for ze Weasleys to believe zat ze eldest son was straighter zan an arrow, and…it was convenient for me as well."

"How?" Hermione asked, before her common sense could stop her. She was met with a stare, one that could only be described as protected.

"'As much as I appreciate your concern, I am afraid zat my private life is exactly zat: private." Her tone was bordering on harsh, and the English witch thought she saw a warning flash of grey in the normally cerulean eyes. She held her hands up in surrender, trying to show that she was a friend. The fierce look left the blonde, leaving a fragile woman behind.

"My family disowned me after I wed William. Zey said I was not being fair to myself and to my 'eritage by settling so early. Zey were more upset zat it was William, zat we were not really in love and zerefore making a mockery of marriage as a 'ole. William and I do love each ozzer, zough. We were just good at pretending it was anozzer kind of love. I guess zat does not matter anymore, does it?" Fleur tried for a laugh. "Merde, I 'ave lost my 'usband, my family, and ze Weasleys. Zey never cared for me much, you know."

Hermione recalled Molly's cold treatment of the woman, as well as every "Phlegm" to pass Ginny's lips. Inwardly, she winced as her own behaviour came back to her in a painful rush. _There's no better time than the present, you know._ She leaned forwards and reached out to tentatively take a hold of the older woman's hand.

"Fleur, it will be alright. I-I don't know how, or why, but it will be alright."

"Je sais, but for now, I feel that I am well within my rights to be upset. Even if not for the ending of my comfortable façade, maybe just for the fact that I am alone and it is of my own doing."

Hermione tried, she really did, but she could not help the small roll of her eyes.

"Yes, Harry used to say that all the time. He's very happy now, with someone that he loves. There is hope, Fleur. Even more so now, now that you're a Delacour again." A sob erupted from the older woman, and Hermione knew that that had been the wrong thing to say. Swiftly whispering apologies, she forsook her status as a polite houseguest, and, standing, took the French witch into her arms for a hug. Into the simple embrace, she poured solidarity. At the same time she noticed the soft quality of Fleur's hair, two arms encircled her waist. Another sob, muffled only by her stomach. She just held her friend, rubbing small and gentle circles on her back and repeating the mantra of "It'll be alright, don't worry."

By the time Fleur had emptied herself of tears, the sun was lazily bathing the city in pink, early morning rays. Hermione had moved, so that she was sitting beside the woman on the sofa, one arm around her, and the other holding her hand as she cried. The younger woman glanced out of the window, and despite the negativity of the last few hours, felt a smile break over her face. Since it was silent, she decided to voice her cheer.

"Do you know what I've always loved about watching sunrises?"

"Je ne sais pas. Pourquoi?"

"Sunrises wake with you: slowly. They start off as slight glimmers, but eventually turn into a pallet that Monet would die for. Come, look," she was already pulling the Frenchwoman by their entwined hands to the window, so that she could understand what on earth the younger woman was going on about.

"Watching the sun rise also tends to remind me of the beauty of simply living. To be alive, to be able to see something as miraculous as the dawn of another day…it is invigorating for the soul. Please, excuse my rambling. I guess during the War, I gathered a deeper appreciation for little things." Hermione shrugged, and turned to Fleur. She was again shocked –yet pleased- at the smile that had formed, possibly unconsciously, on the woman's face.

"_C'est magnifique_."

After half an hour had gone by, Fleur disentangled their hands.

"Breakfast is not going to make itself, and as I do not zink eizzer of us is going back to sleep, allow me to begin ze coffee. Would you like somezing cooked or is cereal enough for you?"

"I would most enjoy cereal, thank you. "

"It is my pleasure."

As she moved to the kitchen, she paused long enough to whisper in Hermione's ear. After her words had been said, she selected the French roast and began to prepare cereal.

"_Merci, pour plus que vous aurez jamais savoir."_

**X**

**Vous êtes reveille! -**You're awake!

**Tu m'as fait peur. -**You scared me.

**Je ne sais pas. Pourquoi? -**I don't know. Why?

**_Merci, pour plus que vous aurez jamais savoir. -_Thank you, for more than you will ever know.**


	4. 去出玩儿、回家

**Another's Treasure**

**X**

**I own nothing except a computer, Batman boxer-briefs, and this story.**

**Your reviews (and private messages) have been truly wonderful, and I thank you all for the support and the observation-questions. It's really great getting these positive reviews, I only hope that this chapter and future ones are able to earn your praises =]  
><strong>**Goodness gracious! It's been a while since an update and for the disgusting amount of lag time, I profusely apologize. Thankfully, a long break is coming up, and while it means dealing with putting out the occasional kitchen fire, it also means more time to write! **

**Inspiration struck at this song: Go Periscope's "Dream This Dream."**

**Enjoy!**

**X **

It is very easy to become lost in a city, and the resulting adventure back to familiarity can lead to epiphanies and oftentimes yields the gift of confidence.

During the rest of her stay in France, Hermione and Fleur did rather mundane things, such as shopping, getting lost in the city – in Hermione's case, that is. Fleur simply indulged her desire to get found with gentle amusement. Each time the duo went somewhere Hermione had not been, Fleur always feigned ignorance of which way was the precise route home. The results were endless hours on the street, finding odd little tidbits and meeting fascinating humans – humans who would then point them in the direction of "home." Sometimes, they met with other magical beings: wizards, witches, and on odd occasions magical creatures with heavy Cloaking and Glamour Charms. New acquaintances were made, and sometimes even new friends came into the picture.

For Hermione, it was a grand adventure, and a brilliant way to distract Fleur from what she assumed was a melancholy that had taken root and grown like a fungus. She caught glimpses of it, usually when the French witch thought that all attentions were turned from her – the rainclouds that darkened her normally bright visage, the small slump of defeat her shoulders just barely gave away. Of course, only when all attentions were averted. _But how could they be?_ The question plagued Hermione as the incessant hum of a power generator might: not annoying, but definitely informative of a presence. It nagged at the back of her mind; Fleur was beautiful, available, and was surprisingly fun to be around. By going only on those three points, logically, she would be the perfect catch. So why was Hermione the only person who noticed, who was paying enough attention to the quarter-Veela, to see that beneath her flawless exterior was someone so utterly human and hurt? Was she the only one who wanted to take the woman in her arms and hold her until the sadness that dulled her gaze was eradicated?

The theory behind her attempts to distract her friend was thus: _if kept at bay for long enough, a painful thought usually dulls its edges and slips away. _Keep in mind that it is not a _bad_ thought that is to be dealt with, merely a painful one. Distraction is the best morphine.

The evenings, when not spent searching for nightlife, were spent with a home-cooked meal from Fleur, which included a wide variety of dishes, and not just French cuisine. They would chat over a glass of butterbeer or Firewhiskey, maybe engage in a small game of Muggle chess – Hermione still stood by her statement that wizard's chess was simply barbaric, and as a host, Fleur abided by her guest's desires. During their evening games, there was also a swapping of stories. By the end of the English woman's stay, her host was almost as familiar with her as she was. That is why, the last night, her question came as a surprise:

"'Ermione, what do you see in Ronald?"

"Come again?" Surprise.

"'Ow did you two fall in love?"

Hermione thought for a second, collecting memories and organizing them into a coherent narrative.

"Well, it certainly wasn't at first sight. In fact, I think it may have taken a couple of years for anything to begin growing…" With that beginning, she narrated hers and Ron's life as friends, members of the Golden Trio, and finally as lovers. Fleur listened intently, raising questions when prudent, as well as laughing and empathizing at the appropriate moments. When Hermione finished the narrative, she noted the thoughtful and guarded expression on her friends face.

"Well, it does seem zat you two were meant to be togezzer. I am very 'appy for ze two of you. Zank you for sharing."

"Thank you, Fleur. I am rather confused as to why you asked about mine and Ron's relationship…Are you alright?" Concern immediately took over the Englishwoman, and she unconsciously shifted, ever so slightly, so that her body was leaning a bit more over the chess board, nearly invading Fleur's personal bubble.

"Ah. Oui, oui. I am fine. I just wished to know 'ow you and Ronald…is operate ze correct word?"

At the quirk of Hermione's eyebrow, Fleur hastily began throwing out apologies, her face a bright cherry red. When she fell silent (partly due to a lack of oxygen – respiration can be a tricky business) a reply was issued.

"Fleur, I understand – at least, I think I do – what your meaning is, there's no need for apology. Is this about what happened with Bill?"

"Oui and non. Zough I know zat we would never love each ozzer, I also wish to know why it - 'ow a normal marriage works, what it is like. 'Earing you speak about it gives me 'ope, you know?"

Hermione gave a small tip of her head, sensing that the blonde wasn't finished speaking.

"I realize zat zees meeting did not…ah…start of on ze most pleasant of notes, and I am truly apologetic zat my be'aviour as a 'ost may 'ave been less zan parfaite. I must zank you for putting up with zees and…and for just being zere. I know zat in ze past I 'ave not been your favourite person, but it means very much zat you took ze time to ignore whatever you feel for me and –"

Tired of listening to her friend demean herself, Hermione stood and brought her in for an awkwardly positioned hug. It did not matter that she was standing and Fleur was sitting; it likewise did not bother her that her face was level with soft, pale hair, and she absently wondered about its scent. It only mattered that her gesture was returned, and the presence of two hands on her back brought a warmth to her body that she had not felt outside of Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Her heart lightened as she felt rather than saw Fleur's smile on her stomach.

"Fleur, you have been so strong and such an amazing hostess that you have changed everything that I ever thought about you. I am honoured to have been your guest, and could not have asked for a better friend."

During this speech, two things happened. The two ladies were still in the embrace, both feeling warmth coursing through them. The younger woman spoke against Fleur's ear, and her warm breath against the sensitive shell caused a small shiver to course through the Frenchwoman's body. Her breath came out as a rasp, causing a jolt somewhere in Hermione's stomach. As soon as it happened, it finished. The blonde detached herself from her friend, a slight pink tinting her features. The moment was over so quickly that Hermione chalked it up to her imagination, despite the warmth in her cheeks and in her middle telling her otherwise.

_What._

XXX

It is strange how foreign home can be after one has traveled. Once-familiar scenes can seem as strange as that part of town that one has never been to but suddenly, after falling asleep on the train, finds oneself in with no map or way of returning. Half of the time, this foreignness can be refreshing; the other half can lead to the deep feeling of alienation that refuses to go away, a small black tree with it's trunk in the heart and with branches extended throughout the body.

Hermione had become accustomed to the scent of leather and good food, with an undercurrent of perfume and something that was just…_Fleur_. As she stepped into the home she shared with her husband, she was blasted by a completely different combination. Book-smell hit her first – though that was due to her very particular olfactory preferences, among which books and fresh parchment were the top-most – followed by an attack of microwaved meals, cologne, and underneath it all, sweat. Normally, this didn't bother the woman; she had spent a year on the run, and how things smelled ceased to matter unless the scents were blood or dangerous potions.

Ron, naturally glad to have his woman back, yanked her into a full-body hug. She breathed him in, trying to make his masculinity familiar to her. Her hands traveled over his muscled back, which was slightly damp with sweat. _Fresh from Quidditch_, she observed, a contented sigh silently escaping.

"Missed you, 'Mione," he said into her hair, bringing a hand up to cradle it in a semi-protective manner. The touch was familiar to her, and she leaned more into him, bringing her mouth up to his. Ron's lips weren't chapped, but they weren't soft – they were pleasant, though. It was a shame that he normally tasted bland and uninteresting, like the porridge that he made before each Quidditch game. Still, there was a soft reassurance in his kisses, a promise that he would always do right by her.

Breaking the kiss, she craned her neck to gaze into his eyes.

"I missed you too, Ron." He gave her a grin, his blue orbs shining with his love for her. She smiled back as she held onto him, warm recognition of home seeping through her veins.

After their embrace, Ron made Hermione dinner – a rare occasion in their home, as he was prone to accidentally burning anything his hands touched in culinary manner. It was simple, but the thought behind it was touching. They went for a small walk around their neighbourhood afterwards, silent and enjoying each other's presence. Throughout, she wondered if maybe they could go on an adventure.

"What would you wanna do that for? Haven't we had enough excitement in our lives?" was the reply she was shot down with. Inwardly sighing, she held Ron closer to her body. Briefly, she wondered about Fleur.

As soon as they returned, they settled down for the night and indulged in each other. They melded together all right. Since he was taller than her, his head rested above hers as he rhythmically thrust over and over, groaning and grunting. His chest hair tickled her throat.

"Mm…bloody hell 'Mione…yeah…"

Sweat coated both of their bodies, and Hermione clung tighter to her husband as she felt herself beginning to come. Normally it washed over her, just like waves calmly rolling upon a beach. It was just as pleasant, too. However, she had a severe shock as she came. Her eyes squeezed shut as she traveled to the brief yet eternal paradise of dopamine, and immediately trained upon the lone figure in her mind. Hermione was confused by the lack of copper hair, and even more perplexed by the slightly French accent that was purring her name. "'_Ermione…_" The lilt took her gentle waves, turned them into tsunamis, and violently forced her over the edge. She clenched and trembled as a pleasure slightly more intense bore down upon her body.

"Oh Merlin, Ron!" Her shout was usually more for his benefit; she liked to silently bask in the feeling, but he loved hearing her voice during sex, even more so when she was speaking his name. It was at those times that she felt the most false. Sometimes it felt as though she was forcing it out, which made her self-conscious; if all she was doing was speaking lines, what more was she than a faceless actress in one of the longest adult video series ever? However, at this particular moment, her ecstasy was real, and she vaguely wondered if it was pure habit that made his name spill from her mouth.

He gasped as he came, jerking and riding his orgasm as he rode her. She paid it no mind, slight amazement coursing through her mind. Ron's sweaty body collapsed upon her, his lips murmuring sweet nothings into her hair as his hands gently stroked her sides. The slight and low vibration of his throat upon her shoulder began lulling her to sleep, banishing the curiosity of her pre-orgasmic hallucination.

"By Dumbledore, 'Mione, I love you."

With that, he was asleep. It was like clockwork; they would have dinner, take a walk, and then engage in sexual relations. Afterwards, he would always fall asleep, and she would be unlucky enough to need to use the loo. Normally, the routine was comforting, a reminder that she was home. However, now it was different. _She_ was different...somehow. _Why did I hear her? Why did I SEE her? Was it her? - It had to be. I don't know any other French blondes._ Putting her finger on what exactly the difference was (as well as how her friend had wormed her way into Hermione's orgasm) proved to be too difficult for her exhausted body, especially with post-sex drowsiness slowly smothering her senses. Eyelids heavy, she allowed the musical melody of Morpheus to take her – goodness knows she needed it to fight off the slight jetlag.

That night, her dreams were normal, with maybe a little too many blonde women with French accents.


	5. 公园

**Another's Treasure**

**X**

**Hey all! Thanks for the support, it's been super motivating and I'm really sorry for not updating sooner! Finals, holidays, and a strange addiction to bacon, drumming, and Full Throttle are partially to blame. **

**Anywhoodles! Next chapter! And to make up for the disgusting amount of absence, and because I was planning it anyways, the next chapter will be fluffy. Three heads and all =] Read, review, and most of all:**

**Enjoy!**

**X**

Experiences that are the most profoundly changing are normally ones that are merely glossed over as "experiences," labeled as such and tucked away. Perhaps they are meditated on during a rainy day; perhaps they just attract dust within the recesses of memory, their contribution not acknowledged but irrevocably _there_.

Sometimes, they force their ways into our consciousness, and the most we can do is sit back and analyze until, with a soft "Oh," we understand.

Sometimes, however, it takes a while for them to get going. They can get a small push from pretty much anything, be it as subtle as a freight train or as obvious as the proverbial needle in the haystack. They can occasionally lack the sudden violence of an avalanche and appear as natural and eventual as a tree growing over a stone.

X

Other than occasional dreams, Hermione had no interaction with Fleur (mental or otherwise) until Ron brought her up. They had both sat down to dinner and had started bouncing theories back and forth about when Harry and Ginny would have children. It was only natural that the two would procreate; the only bets made were the ones dealing with the time of conception and birth. Undoubtedly, George was already in the process of creating a pool regarding such matters.

"I hope they let the whole family know first-off, I know that I would like to be present at the birth," Hermione said as she helped herself to green beans.

"Wi' th' way thmgs 'r', I d'nt think th' whole fmbligh wi' b' th'r'," Ron replied through a mouthful of chicken. A small grimace-sneer twitched across Hermione's face.

"Why wouldn't the whole family be there?" Her husband looked at her as though she were mentally slow. Swallowing, he explained.

"Uh, because first off, Fleur and Bill are having that…thing…and Charlie's back in Romania on assignment, not to mention Harry's Muggles pretend he doesn't even exist. Also…Fred." Each fact but that of Fred's death was punctuated with a wave of chicken drumstick.

"You know what I mean." _Since when has Harry's extended family mattered?_ "Also, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but George has been plenty mischievous to make up for Fred's absence. I don't know where Bill's gone to, but I'm certain that Fleur would want to be there; she was very upset about missing Harry and Ginny's wedding, after all."

"Yeah, but she's not technically family anymore. Why would she be invited?"

"Because she was part of the family for long enough, not to mention friends of Harry and Ginny. I'm sure she would also enjoy being there _for _the birth of Harry's child."

"She's never enjoyed being anywhere near the family, 'Mione. Hell, she moved back to France after she and Bill got married!"

"So we treat her like she doesn't exist?" Hermione was becoming annoyed with her spouse, and all thought of dinner was abandoned in favour of proving him wrong. "She's just a part of this family as you are, _Ronald_, and I'm sure if she were to receive an invitation she would be here in no time." She huffed, and crossed her arms.

"Love, I highly doubt that. Besides, she doesn't care. She was just with Bill 'cause of the prestige he had from the war, not 'cause she liked him. I don't see why this matters, seeing as they-" Whatever he may have tried to say was cut very short by Hermione abruptly standing, bringing her hands down upon the table so hard that the silverware jumped.

"She did _love_ him, and I cannot believe that you would say that she doesn't care! Do you even remember how long I was gone for? Do you think I was away for such a long time because of the _fun_?" Ron didn't seem capable of a reply, which only spurred his wife onwards. "I wasn't, for your information. I was stuck there for a week, in part because of the plane tickets, but mostly to make sure that Fleur didn't do anything rash. She's grieving, Ron. She has feelings just like you or I. Imagine that I'd left you for another woman. How would you feel?"

"Bloody pissed," he started, full of manly bravado. Catching her eye, he amended his statement so that it was truthful. "Hurt, I s'ppose, and sad."

"Right. That is what she's been going through, and it is so incredibly insensitive of you to say that she doesn't care! I honestly don't know how to react to or deal with you right now, Ron."

She walked away from the table, pausing only to slip her feet into shoes and her body into a warm jacket, and left the house for a walk. Ron sat at the table, looking dumbfounded yet thoughtful – a look he was very used to wearing.

X

When a biting wind gently nibbles upon one's back, she or he will find that anger slowly cools off and eventually melts away. It will be transformed from a raging beast inflaming the heart into a cool vapour, taken and lost among the currents of air. The sharpness of November can be tasted as one inhales, and a freshness that comes only with rain and dead leaves will fill the senses.

Smoke threaded through the air. Hermione breathed it in deeply, loving the unique tang that accentuated the cold sweetness of autumn oxygen. Families were burning the leaves that they had diligently raked, not to mention the aftermath of the Muggle Guy Fawkes day. The ghosts of firecrackers wove through the smoke, making the wisps and tendrils different shades of grey.

_Ron…Ron can be very aggravating. You love him though, and because of that you will go back to him without jinxing his knickers off. Calm down, just breathe, and stop being angry with him. He can be thick, you know this, remember, "the emotional range of a teaspoon?" _

During times of…emotional duress in the Weasley-Granger household, Hermione took walks to clear her mind – and emotions – so that she could return to her husband without a hex on her tongue. Her route began at a steady pace, down until the street ended. Normally she took the left-hand turn, the one that led to a small incline that held a playground and an oak tree. Vines and thistles grew over the fence that carelessly looped around the playground, giving it a rather ominous first impression. However, daisies grew inside the small "compound," the swing set was well oiled, the jungle gym sturdy, and the slide shone as though built only yesterday. If she was angry enough with Ron, Hermione would sit and swing for a few minutes – it would only be an appropriate response, kicking the air until a satisfactory momentum was established. Sometimes she would sit on the carved up wooden bench and read the graffiti.

Today, she heaved a sigh before parking herself upon the bench. Children from the local Muggle high school had carved into the abused wood. If the profanities were anything to go by, the educational system of the wizarding world far surpassed that of the non-magical one:

_**Chazzie iz a HOR**_

_**D.R. wuz heer**_

_**FUQ U!**_

_**Oi 4 a gr8 shag fone 01832…**_

_**Voo lay voo cushay avec mwa? xOx**_

Hermione paused, attempting to turn the last carving into something resembling English. After rolling it around in her head, she decided to vocalize the words. It clicked after each butchered word left her mouth: _vous le vous coucher avec moi?_ Chuckling, she couldn't help but think of the song from whence the lyric came. However, as her only in-depth experience with a native French speaker had been the during the time she'd spent as Fleur's houseguest, her mind decided to paste the witch's face over the faces of the original singers. The image was amusing, and Hermione couldn't help but chortle a bit more. Fleur would certainly never wear such silly hairstyles, or such racy costumes!

Fleetingly, she wondered if the older woman danced, what her favourite style of dance was, and whether it would be anything like that of those independent women that some mistake for whores. The various mental images of the Frenchwoman moving to a beat struck a spark somewhere behind Hermione's bellybutton, and she wondered at the warmth unfurling from there. At the memory of a soft hand and a warm embrace, a small shiver made its way up her spine, drawing her shoulders back and ever so slightly halting her breath. Deciding that it was probably chilled enough and that her body was merely reacting, Hermione heaved a sigh as she drew herself (a little unwillingly) to her feet. _Time to go home_. Her foul temper had abated, and besides, she hadn't eaten dessert.

X

"Fleur's coming for a visit in about a week, 'Mione." Ron called from the kitchen, where he was pouring steaming water into two mugs. With a small warm twinge in her diaphragm, Hermione grinned behind her book. _Think of the devil…_

"She is? Is she staying with Molly and Arthur, then?" she questioned, raising her eyes to meet his as he re-entered the sitting room with two cups of Earl Grey tea. He shrugged as his body joined hers on the sofa. Pointedly, Hermione raised her feet into his lap. Large hands rubbed softly on the insides arches, bringing tingles from her feet to the tips of her ears. The wonderful sensation stopped five seconds later, as it was prone to do, when Ron picked up the _Daily Prophet_ to scan headlines.

"Mmh. Says 'ere that Hogwarts's got some spiffy new defenses, I wonder if Harry was heading that project?" Harry was one of the top guns in defense magic, and would probably have done something along the lines of protecting his alma mater.

"Maybe she could stay with us?" That Hermione phrased it as a question was merely out of politeness. There was a suggestion that masked itself as a command, with a thinly veiled threatening of domestic peace lurking behind it. This strategy rarely worked with her husband, but she had always held onto hope that he would one day catch on. In her opinion, it was training.

Ron opened his mouth to reply with a negative, but tensed, remembering their fight earlier that week. His eyes widened and narrowed as he thought. Keeping the spat in mind, the question was probably one of those trick ones that was either correct or resulted with him in the doghouse. He again shrugged noncommittally. If it made his wife happy, who was he to fight against it? Besides, friends are important.

"Sure, I mean, you two are pretty close right?"

The owl message containing their invitation was sent an hour after the couples brief conversation. A week and puff of Floo Powder later, Fleur stood smiling in the very cramped space of Ron and Hermione's fireplace.


	6. 她们吃冰淇凌

**Standard disclaimer, I own nothing and everything you see is coincidental.**

**Oh my gosh you guys. I'm sorry for not updating sooner, a lot of things were going down. Namely, living in China for a while. Like a boss. A boss with very limited internet. There is the other matter of being side-tracked by tons of excellent fics - they're just so shiny! Also, I've been working so that leaves very little time for writing. However, this is longer, sort of fluffy, and new chapter-y! I hope y'all enjoy it =] **

**Musical influences/supports: The Driver (Catacomb Kid), Belispeak (Purity Ring), the Danger Days album (My Chemical Romance), and like all of Ellie Goulding's work. Seriously she's awesome.**

**Here 'tis! Enjoy =]**

**X**

There is a familiarity almost like home that each person finds within her friends, a warmth that can only be uniquely provided by such relationships. Therefore, when one has not seen a friend, close or not, in quite some time, a reunion can be most pleasant and comforting. However, the meeting also holds the potential to be quite awkward, especially if previously, disagreements have been vehemently voiced (some call this phenomenon "arguments" or "fights"). A one-sided tension may also arise in the instance of sudden realizations deciding to strike. This latter happening can, depending on how it is handled, affect the reunion to the point of creating a significant change in a friendship. Whether said change is of positive or negative impact rests entirely on the way with which the parties affected meet it.

"Fleur!" Hermione exclaimed, rushing into the living room. She swiftly swept her visitor into an enthusiastic embrace, bringing forth a chuckle from the Frenchwoman. As her hug was returned, she noted a subtle yet delightful scent about Fleur: had they not been hugging, Hermione would never have sensed it. For a second, she pondered its identity.

"Bonjour 'Ermione, it is good to see you again." Fleur smiled into her statement, squeezing just a fraction tighter before breaking the embrace.

"You too! I hope your Floo travel went well?"

"It was ze usual, but I had no troubles."

"That's wonderful to hear! You wouldn't believe the things that could go wrong with Floo," Hermione started, thinking back to her second year at Hogwarts, when Harry had mispronounced "Diagon Alley" and ended up in Knockturn Alley instead. Her mind then drifted to the several times she had had to go retrieve an inebriated Ron from some poor wizarding home, because he had tried to Floo home from whatever pub he had visited.

"'Ermione?" A gentle hand on her elbow brought the younger witch back to the present. Slight embarrassment ran through her –she rarely, if ever, allowed her mind to float away, especially if guests were present.

"Oh Fleur! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drift off like that!" Immediately her eyes snapped to the hand holding her elbow, then to the opposite hand, where she focused on the suitcase. Her mind took a fraction of a second to flash back to their embrace in France, leaving only a slight pinkness in her cheeks as evidence.

"Well, let's get you all squared away then! Or are you hungry? I've just been preparing for lunch, if you'd like a bite."

"Oui, I would like zat very much!"

Hermione headed towards the kitchen, simultaneously Levitating Fleur's suitcases upstairs. She had been [preparing a sandwich, so two more slices of bread were added to the cutting board, which was now doubling as a large plate.]

"Is one going to be enough for you? It usually does the trick for me, but I can make more in the event that it isn't enough for you." The response was a throaty chuckle:

"Il suffit, merci. I 'ave always found zat un sandwich is just ze perfect meal. It does not completely fill you, but zere is just enough to keep you going until dinner."

"What about breakfast, then?" A twinkle of mirth danced across brown eyes and into cerulean orbs. A perfect mouth quirked itself into a small smirk.

"Qu'en est-il, chérie?" The joke was not lost upon the English woman, and she let loose a laugh that was soon joined by Fleur's. The two mirthfully let their laughter fade into giggles, and afterwards engaged in simple conversation while Hermione made sandwiches.

X

Fleur decided to take a brief nap after their lunching, leaving Hermione with time for a stroll. Naturally, as if remembering a well-learned dance, her feet took her to the park. In contrast to a week ago, the air was pleasantly chilled instead of biting. The English anomaly of blue skies followed her, with little puffs of clouds briefly glancing by to observe her trek. As always, Hermione's attention wandered to her surroundings, and her mind ticked off both familiar and new observations. _The neighbours cut their grass; somebody picked the daisies near the end of the lane; that fence needs to be replaced, it's going to rot out with the next rain._ Eventually, her thoughts meandered to Fleurs presence – as is normal, when one has a houseguest. Bill had not been brought up, but she wanted to make sure that the older woman was alright. She wondered if the other Weasleys had extended a hand of friendship – or even of support. Judging from her husband's reaction, the family had engaged in no such behaviour. A snort escaped her lips; the Weasleys were often something of a clique instead of a family, in that once someone was out, they were out. Her better side scolded that derisive thought, because _isn't that true of most families? _Families were units who were connected, either through genetics or through mutual sentiment (and on the rarest of occasions, both). _Scientifically, to ensure that their particular line continued onwards, it would make sense to oust undesirable members._ Hermione's brow wrinkled. It made sense yet made absolutely none at all! Fleur, of all the people in both magical and Muggle worlds, was in no way a threat. She was a courteous, warm woman. The only reasons Hermione had disliked her during their school years were due to her and Fleur's relative immaturity. Now, all she saw was a lady who was as beautiful inside as she was out.

Her musing took her to the swing set, and continued sifting through her mind as she aimlessly swung. Perhaps she could get Ron to see what she saw, and then maybe through him the rest of the Weasleys would understand what Hermione saw in her friend. _Especially since, excepting Molly, Ron would be the toughest nut to crack…_ For a second, she felt guilty for thinking of her husband in such a way. Her logical side brushed the emotion away; _it's true, though. Both he and Molly are the most stubborn of their family, and when they set their heart to disliking someone, it may as well be a done deal. It isn't necessarily a bad quality; the world needs the hardheaded so that things can get done. You yourself have been known to employ the clichéd "my way or the highway" method from time to time_, her Spockian side argued.

Eventually, her mental rambling gave way to the way her mind had summoned her hug with Fleur earlier in the day. As if sensing her shift, the phantom of a shiver tickled her body, causing her eyes to flutter before closing. Her legs planted on the ground, effectively stopping the swing. A deep breath filled her lungs with autumn, making the calming exhalation cool and sweet. It was the way her body reacted that had the memory niggling in the back of her skull, teasing her with something unrealized. _Come on, "something unrealized?" Granger, she probably just has sensitive ears. Calm down before you make yourself hysterical over nothing. _Acknowledging her sensibilities with only a sigh, the witch slowly began making her way back to her home.

X

Dinner was a surprisingly uneventful affair: Ron and Fleur conversed as though they had seen each other only yesterday, and while the topics remained superficial, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief at the relative peacefulness. She had been expecting Ron to show the same disdain for Fleur that he had been expressing to his wife not even two weeks prior, or something along those lines. It must not be easy for him, she conceded. He was doing the right thing, though, and she was proud. It was moments like this that showed her just how her husband had grown and matured, and that evidence created a nice warm feeling in her chest.

_Nice? Is that how you'd describe it…_snickered the part of her mind that was usually unhelpfully insightful. _Shouldn't it make you swell with pride; make you all the more in love with him? Shouldn't you be aroused by his adult behaviour? _Hermione's nose wrinkled with distaste at her own thoughts. She could swear that there were sometimes two people inside of her, one of them existing purely to challenge her in every way.

"'Mione? You alright?" Ron had noticed her small contortion of the face from across the small table. She opted for a white lie; telling him what was going on would disrupt everything, and would not end well for any party involved.

"Quite alright, thank you luv. Just had a foot cramp," she smiled, flexing her foot despite its hidden position under the table.

"A charley horse you mean? Those are just simply the worst. Why don't you stay here, I'll bring in dessert and take the dishes to the wash. Don't want you to strain your foot!" He gathered dishes as he spoke, only stopping both actions to swiftly kiss Hermione on the cheek. Once he was out of sight, Fleur leaned over towards the left, towards the younger woman and whispered conspirationally:

"Is 'e usually zees 'elpful?"

"Not really, no. We sometimes divvy up the kitchen work, though usually I get the lot done magically," was the quieter reply.

"You make all of ze meals, oui?"

"Well, yes, a majority of the time."

"Zen 'e should be doing ze dishes, it is only fair. You cook, 'e cleans. Il est tout naturel." Hermione's eyebrow quirked at her friend. She shared the sentiment, agreed with it wholeheartedly, yet at the same time she didn't exactly trust Ron's aptitude in the area of preparing food or cleaning it. _If you want something done right, better to do it yourself, _she thought.

"Well, it may be natural and equal and all that, but I don't feel at all under any sort of pressure to push it as an issue."

"Pourquoi?" Blue eyes held Hermione in a curious gaze. The brunette was struck by how her friend resembled a blonde kitten, and couldn't stop the small smile that tugged on her lips.

"Because I'm frankly better at all things within the kitchen, and we both know that. He mows the lawn, I clean the dishes," Hermione chuckled. "A system's been established, and as long as we both agree on one thing, it doesn't matter who does what."

"And what is zees one zing you bozz agree on?" Fleur leaned closer, her voice dropping to an even quieter whisper, eyes twinkling.

Hermione straightened, smirked, and leaned back in:

"It's that I am always right."

For a second, there was silence. Silence and eye contact.

Then, Fleur let loose a guffaw of mirth. It was not a graceful tinkling of laughter, nor was it a gentle giggle. It was a out and out guffaw, straight from the depths of the Frenchwoman's being. _Il est tout naturel._

X

Midnight – actually, around 1:42 in the morning – saw Hermione silently padding her way into the kitchen for the slight midnight snack that she'd been craving. She'd gone to bed sated, but after dreams containing rolling hills of ice cream and oceans of yoghurt, her stomach loudly began voicing its objection to not having some form of cold dairy inside of it.

As she neared her destination, she noticed light coming faintly from the room. _Probably the refrigerator_, she mused sleepily. Onward she crept, not making it five steps before realizing that oh sweet Merlin, someone else was up! Or she and Ron were getting robbed! From the kitchen..? Peering into the kitchen, Hermione couldn't help but smile softly. There, illuminated by the glorious light of the refrigerator, was a pyjama-clad Fleur. A look of concentration and conflict created a cute contortion of her visage: her brow was furrowed lightly, mouth turned ever so slightly downwards in a thoughtful frown. One delicate hand rested on the fridge door, while the other toyed with a small necklace resting upon the woman's collarbone.

"If you want, there's ice cream in the freezer," Hermione offered, making the other witch jump slightly.

"Mon dieu, 'Ermione! 'Ow do you move about like un chat?" The older woman clasped her chest as though trying to contain her heart.

"I really don't, I just invest in Silencing charms for my floorboards," she grinned.

"Zat…makes ze most sense, actually."

"I am usually very sensible," Hermione teased. "I was serious about the ice cream though, it's in the freezer if you'd like any."

"I zink zat ice cream sounds razzer perfect, merci 'Ermione."

"Don't thank me yet, I came down for frozen dairy as well."

"Well zen, we shall share!" Fleur smiled as she reached above the refrigerator to open the freezer, revealing a pint of Häagen-Dazs. Bringing it down, she looked to Hermione with the unasked question: _Spoons? _A quick Accio later, the two were leaning against the counter and trading off bites of coffee flavoured frozen goodness. _You could ask her how she's doing now, you know,_ the niggling voice crooned. For once, the rest of Hermione's mind didn't disagree, and she put forth the question. A small, sadly gentle smile was the beginning of the reply.

"I am…I am alright as far as ze general zings go. I expected zees, bien sûr. 'Owever, it is lonely, at many times. As you know, I do not keep many close friends. It is difficult to 'ave friendship when ze Veela in me eizzer attracts a person or zinks zat zey are competition. Besides you, Gabrielle, and mon propriétaire, I do not get out much. It is lonely, and it is boring. It never used to matter in my mind, because Bill, 'e kept me entertained. We would go out with 'is work friends, we would travel, we would do everyzing togezzer. But now, 'e is 'ow you say…AWOL?" Hermione nodded in understanding. "I also miss my family, but we 'ave 'ad no contact besides ze letters and ze meetings I 'ave with Gabrielle. Zey were very against my decision, as you know. Being wizout your family is absolute 'ell, 'Ermione. I do not suggest it." The blonde witch, who had seemed to shrink as she spoke, suddenly straightened and a personably false smile appeared on her face.

"Oh, but listen to me! 'Ow loudly I complain! Tell me, 'Ermione, what plans do we 'ave for my visit?"

The younger witch saw the abrupt change in subject, and decided to let her friend's attempt to switch topics go ahead. When Fleur was ready to completely unload, she would do just that. Hermione wouldn't push it.

"Well, it depends on what _you_ would like to do. I have some errands that need to get done, restocking the fridge and all that, but there's a few new Muggle movies playing in Peterborough, if you'd be interested in that? Or we could see the museum in London. The Fens are lovely this time of year, if that's more up your alley," she articulated with a spoon full of ice cream, before sliding it into her mouth. There was a strange look on Fleur's face, and Hermione wondered if she'd babbled enough to show her inner geek. Her friend shook her head, swallowing the ice cream she'd spooned into her mouth. Amusement shone bright in her eyes.

"You 'ave a bit of, ah…" the older woman reached up, and with her thumb wiped away a stray droplet of coffee ice cream from the corner of her friend's mouth. Her hand lingered, and the pure softness of her touch was not unnoticed. The strangest urge to lean into Fleur's hand stabbed at Hermione's consciousness for the briefest of seconds. Perhaps she imagined the catching of…someone's breath. Opting for a different strategy, she instead grinned and took that hand in her right, bringing it down and holding it as friends who are girls are wont to do.

"Thank you for getting that for me, I honestly would not have noticed!" _But you would have, though. _

"It was no trouble, chérie. I 'ave never been to ze British Museum, shall we go for a day? I would also like to see zese 'Fens' you speak of." The French woman paused. "I would also like to 'elp you wiz ze errands; as your guest, it is ze least I can do."

"It's settled then! We just have to pick a day to go, and I'll get us there. And Fleur, please don't feel like you need to be helpful, you're my guest. Let me take care of you." Fleur put her spoon down, ice cream forgotten.

"I trust you, 'Ermione. I trust zat you will take good care of me, and I trust zat we are friends. I merely wish to be as 'elpful as possible, so zat you do not need to be stressed over ze duration of my stay. You 'ave been so good to me in ze past, and I am so grateful to you. Zees is just anozzer way for me to say 'zank you.'"

Happy warmth spread through the Englishwoman at her friend's declaration. With a tug on the hand she was holding, Hermione brought Fleur into an embrace, hoping to share the feeling through physical contact. Their bodies connected and molded, it seemed, almost instantly to one another, with Hermione's head tucked comfortably into the crook of Fleur's neck and Fleur's head resting atop Hermione's. The scent of the older woman pleasantly invaded her younger friend's senses, lightly bringing forth a sensation of a permanent summer. Whether a couple of minutes or a half an hour had passed before they broke the hug, neither knew, nor cared.

"Fleur?"

"Hm?"

"Just, what you were saying earlier. You're not completely alone. I promise Fleur, if you ever need anything, Ron and I will always open our door to you. You will always be welcome in our home." She knew it was only a fraction of what she wanted to express, and hoped that her eyes conveyed the absolute sincerity with which she uttered her words. What she wanted to say, to adequately get across to the Frenchwoman, was that even though their familial status was legally of the "ex in-law" variety, they were both still family in Hermione's eyes and she still cared for Fleur as deeply as she did her family.

There was silence for a small second, and Hermione wondered if her words still hung in the air, or whether Fleur had taken them into her mind and heart. The response came soon enough: with a softly grateful smile, the elder witch leaned in and gently kissed Hermione's cheek. Time seemed to slow by a fraction as her lips brushed against the younger witch, whose mind hiccupped at the combination of Fleur-scent and lip contact. She felt her face go warm as tingles shot up and down her spine. After the French witch pulled away, Hermione could still swear she felt those lips pressing themselves firmly against her cheekbone.

"Merci beaucoup, chérie." was whispered into a stunned ear. As if a phantom, Fleur was suddenly gone, leaving only a spoon as evidence of her previous presence.

X

**Oh man, moving the plot forward one glacial step at a time! Thoughts?**


	7. 变化

**Standard disclaimer: I own nothing, and everything is purely coincidental.**

**Many, many things have happened and I'm sorry for being so neglectful! Recently moved house, graduated, did a lot of life firsts and ended up pushing a lot of things to the side. **

**Music: Finger Back (Vampire Weekend), Disappear Me Water (Shira E), and Fabrizio Paterlini**

People change, it's true. It happens often and it never ceases. More often than not, these shifts occur at the most inopportune times – either too early or too late; rarely, if ever, are they on time. Just like a riptide, when it happens, all one can do is accept that they are caught, relax, go with the flow, and hope for the best. In all honesty, change is an umbrella term for the deaths and rebirths that take place at both minute and gargantuan levels every sixty minutes, twenty-four hours, three hundred and sixty-five and a quarter days a year.

Sometimes, the change is fireworks inside of a library, deafening and jolting you out of your old self and into a new one. It's quite rude, and tends to leave a messy aftermath.

Other times, it's subtle and not easily articulated. It's waking up one morning and seeing everything more clearly, and realizing that there's been a silent shift in the world, which has taken yesterday's eyes and polished them, renewing them. The differences are smaller, but they're there and you notice. This is usually the more preferable of the two changes, as it humbly allows each individual to go at their own pace in relative peace.

Experience shapes change, encourages it along. The two phenomena of existence share many similarities, and are so closely, inextricably linked that they seem to be sisters. Different, but of the same lineage, they flit through the world together, playing with thoughts and fates and other momentary events that seem, in the very present, set in stone. Stones, however, erode.

X

Despite their conversation the previous night, Fleur insisted on at the very least helping with the bags during the morning's errands. The trip to the store had been done in a rush, with Fleur perplexedly following Hermione. The only time the younger witch slowed down was to get eggs – the rest was done so quickly that if anybody had asked a bag-laden Fleur about the trip, she wouldn't be able to say for sure whether or not it truly occurred. She smiled at Hermione all the same, though; the energy was infectious and welcome.

Hermione was against the counter, putting away the thyme and basil. Suddenly, she felt a soft pressure on her back as two pale arms reached around her. Warm breath on her exposed neck caused her pulse to pound just a little bit harder in her ears, and she paused what she was doing. She could, despite the rhythmic thudding, hear the light breathing of the figure behind her. When a pair of lips just barely brushed against the shell of her ear, a shiver shot down her spine to somewhere around her navel. It warmed there, and then traveled to her knees and back into her face. She knew there was a blush forming on her cheeks.

_I wonder…_

"Désolé, cherie," Fleur murmured, closing the cabinet. Her words sliced through the suddenly thicker air. The warm breath and feather-lightness of Fleur's mouth fanned the flames of Hermione's blush. "I was just putting ze flour away, I did not mean to startle you."

"Quite…quite alright Fleur," Hermione somehow squeaked out. Her knuckles whitened, their grip around the thyme vice-like.

"We 'ad better 'urry if we are going to ze museum, non?"

"Yes!" Having completely forgotten about their plans for the day, Hermione shot into action. This was partly to make up for the delay, and mostly to hide her reaction to the moment and sensation that had briefly overtaken her. _Well done, Granger, why don't you just confess that she affected you; it'd save more energy than this, _the small snide voice snickered. She ignored it and kept moving. Before her heart had a chance to start beating properly, everything had been squared away. Fleur was left standing very, very still. Hermione in the manic throes of rushing was _not_ the unstoppable force that one's immovable object would even voluntarily try to meet.

"Well – are – you – ready?" Hermione gasped. The older witch, still seemingly afraid of even blinking, nodded apprehensively.

"Oui…?"

The duo Apparated to London; Hermione had not wanted to wait out the alternative two-hour car ride. Museums had the ability - and tendancy - to reduce Hermione's patience to that of a five year old. Her excitement had been palpable from the minute she woke, energizing the house and causing her hair to frizz slightly – figuratively speaking.

Sort of.

There was something so magnetic and electric about being so close to artifacts and evidence and knowledge, something so non-mystically magical in the actuality of what she had read in books, that visiting the large, ornate building would leave her smiling for days. She had done moderately well at containing the hyperactive joy that urged her to see everything that the museum had to offer, at least until she and Fleur entered the place itself. _You are entertaining your guest, Hermione Jane Granger, _a voice that sounded something like her mother's admonished. _Instead of running off, let her lead the way._ Swallowing down her excitement, the brunette turned to Fleur.

"Is there anything you'd like to see? I mean, there's the whole museum but if there's anything in particular that you're interested in, we could start there." The words tumbled out of her mouth, water flowing from a broken dam. Fleur had, by this point, become desensitized to the sudden energy – though really, an outside observer could possibly theorize that she seemed charmed, based on the amused smile that mirthfully played from the gentle crinkling of her forehead down into the slight crease of her chin.

"I 'ave no preference, cherie. It would be mon plaisir to look at everyzing with you."

"Really? That's fantastic!" If Hermione's face had been lit up before, it was now positively beaming. She thought about grabbing Fleur's hand and pulling her towards the exhibits, but refrained. It wasn't that she didn't want to; something inside had churned not entirely unpleasantly at the thought, and she wished to work it out before acting. _Impulsiveness belongs with Harry_, _I hear they're quite happy together._

So, instead, the younger witch asked her guest which direction to take.

X

Mid-afternoon saw them enjoying tea at a café near the museum. They were chatting about some of the exhibits, and theorizing whether or not wizards were involved in more than a few events. The conversation had taken turns, twists, and currently focused upon one of the more recent exhibits offered.

"I still don't understand the purpose of Bitcoin," Hermione lamented. "There are still so many questions and not enough bloody answers!"

"Oui, je suis d'accord. It is almost ze antithesis of magic – something we witches cannot explain."

"That seems to go for the entirety of the Internet."

"Oui. If you bring to me a curse or a 'ex, I can tell you exactly 'ow it is set up, what goes into it, and 'ow to break it. Sometimes, I can improve it. Zees, 'owever…je ne compreds pas."

"Exactly! It is a virtual, entirely electronic world that has no set boundaries, no regulations, and continuously redefines space and morality and language. It is so incredibly frustrating because it constantly shifts, Fleur!"

"Much like 'istory, non?"

"..." Hermione's reply died on her tongue. The Frenchwoman's point was intriguing. _Smart and beautiful. _"Well, yes, Fleur, I think you've got something."

"Bien sûr, mon cher. Ze Internet 'as 'istory, it 'as artifacts, it 'as it's own set of scholars et philosophes. It changes, yet always with un thème at ze core."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, digesting the words.

"And what I zink is ze most incroyable, most amazing: Muggles created it." Fleur looked towards Hermione, cocking her head to the left and letting a small smile turn up her lips.

Pride shot through Hermione at this comment: _bloody right Muggles created the Internet! _Staring into her tea, she mused:

"Muggles, practicing their own sort of Transfiguration and Potions, but instead of newts and goblets, using code and keyboards, created an entire alternate world to inhabit. For all their faults and failures, Fleur, Muggles can be fantastic, sometimes, achieving things more wondrous than magic, more breathtaking and inherently more astounding; the only magics accessible to Muggles are creativity and drive, you know, not aptitude for Charms or curse-breaking. After all, '_work is love made visible._'" Hermione looked up at Fleur, and found her leaning forward with her chin resting on one fist. Blushing slightly, she continued: "It's astounding, honestly. Thinking about it, I've never felt more proud to come from Muggles, fallible as we – they – can sometimes be."

A silver eyebrow furrowed in concentration, and the soft-looking mouth opened slightly, a question poised to dive from Fleur's tongue and into the conversation.

"Do you visit your parents much?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you et Ron, do you togezzer go to see your family?"

Silence hung, thicker than fog.

"They're still upset with me, for what I did during the War." Tears burned salty paths through Hermione's eyes, and she smashed her lips together to stop them from quivering. Fleur noticed – even a dead person would have noticed the tectonic plates of emotion shifting – and immediately stood.

"Wait 'ere, I will be back." Nodding, Hermione took the moment alone to breathe deeply and feel. She took another breath and brought herself back under control. The older woman returned with a receipt and their coats.

"Shall we 'ead back?" A jacket was proffered, and Hermione gratefully accepted.

X

The swings at the park were slightly damp; it had rained earlier. The greens and reds burst from the background, creating a pleasantly overwhelming contrast to the light grey sky. Rain scent clung to everything.

On the equally soggy bench, Hermione tearfully poured out everything to Fleur: her tampering with her parents' memories, moving them out of the country; bringing them back and restoring the memories, confessing to them what she had done and why; the argument and yelling match that ultimately left her crying at their front door; and finally, finding comfort and family within the Weasley clan.

"'Ave you talked with Ronald about zees?"

"No, well, yes, barely…he keeps telling me that I don't need them, that I have the Weasleys now…I don't think he understands, bless him." Hermione sniffled.

"Non, it seems he does not. What about ze rest of ze Weasleys?"

"Only Ginny seems to care, but she's always away for Quidditch and now she and Harry are busy being married…"

"Mon cher, je suis tellement désolé, je ne sais pas," Fleur whispered, her own throat tightening.

"No Fleur, you had nothing to do with it. I – It was my own doing. I could have just told them everything, I could have just cast m-more p-protective charms, I could have -" She broke off, crying, regret and guilt pumping from her sternum to her tears. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. She closed her eyes.

The next thing she felt was one arm over her shoulders and one arm around her waist, pulling her towards the other woman. Her own arms shot out and brought her more into the hug, gripping Fleur's shoulders. The bridge of her nose met the softest patch of skin, and based on the more solid skin jutting against her lips, she assumed that her face was nestled in the crook of Fleur's neck.

"Shh, mon amie," was whispered against her ear as the hand on her waist moved to rub slow circles on her back. "You did what you 'ad to do; Death Eaters could 'ave found zem if you 'ad let zem stay 'ere. If you 'ad told zem, zey would 'ave kept you under lock and key; zey love you, and zey worry. It is a parent's job. Zey will understand eventually, you will see. Trust me, cherie." Logically, Hermione knew the older witch was correct. It was still painful though, and she still felt guilt.

"'Ermione, look at me." Fleur's soft hand lightly lifted the English witch's face upwards, so that blue could connect with watery, puffy brown.

"You do not feel okay now, but I promise to you, things will be better. It will be alright." She sealed her promise with a light kiss to Hermione's forehead. "Until zen, if you need anything, I am just a Floo away." Hermione swallowed hard and hugged Fleur tightly.

"Thank you, Fleur. That truly means a lot to me."

X

The rest of Fleur's stay was filled with castles and history, as well as trips to the local shops and pubs. Ron continued to be polite towards her, which Hermione greatly appreciated. The two women continued to share conversations ranging from the effect of magic on the environment to which Quidditch player was the best. Loyally, Hermione maintained that it was Ginny, while Fleur rattled off international Quidditch superstars' names.

Finally, though, it was time for Fleur to return to France. A new assignment had come up, and her debriefing would occur within the week. Sadness poured through Hermione; not the tear jerking kind of sadness, but a more subtle sort of melancholy that seeps through when a dear one must too soon depart. Fleur, it seemed, shared her sentiments.

"From what I know, I am expected to attend a meeting with anozzer bank and…ah…influence ze discussion. Vraiment, I wish only to spend anozzer day 'ere. Zere is still so much to see." After her subdued announcement, the day continued as it had: Hermione and Fleur exploring and chatting, neither focusing on Fleur's departure. Dinner was more subdued than it had been the past few days, despite both women trying to fit as much socializing in before the inevitable tomorrow.

When everyone retired to bed, Hermione uncomfortably occupied the space between awake and falling asleep. After a couple of hours, she gave up on the elusive REM and wandered down to the kitchen.

The ice cream was cool and sweet, and as she sucked on the spoon, Hermione lightly and absently tapped her feet against the counter she had perched upon. Her thoughts were occupied, and she meditated on Fleur's visit. It was nothing new, merely rewinding and replaying her favourite moments of the visit. Every time, there was something new to see: the patience and empathy in normally icy blue eyes, the amusing surprise at Hermione's museum mania, the soft smile resting upon a slightly opened fist, the shot of something caused by soft lips grazing the sensitive outer curve of her ear…

"You cannot sleep as well?" The sleepy lilt broke Hermione out of her reverie, and she jumped ever so slightly. Fleur, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, cocked an eyebrow even as a "désolé" fluttered from her amused mouth.

"Fleur, goodness! I didn't even hear you come down!" Looking down at the slightly melted ice cream, Hermione thought to offer it. Fleur opened the utensils drawer and procured a spoon, and soon they were both settled, eating ice cream in amicable silence. After a few spoonfuls, Hermione realized that the salt content in ice cream was not enough to be noticeable, but was enough to make her thirst. She turned to Fleur, who casually leaned against the counter, supported by her elbows.

"Would you like some water, Fleur? I'm a bit parched, myself."

"Mm, oui. I can get ze glasses, do not worry." Fleur straightened and moved over, reaching for the cabinet. Hermione ducked to the left, gently holding onto the older woman's arm to steady herself. The cabinet closed, and as the glasses clinked against the counter, she straightened back up and found herself nose to nose with Fleur. Who was standing right between her legs.

Their eyes locked, and Hermione stopped breathing. _Hermione Jane Granger, you are married and have been so for a sizeable amount of time and she is your friend and mercy help me this is going to change so much - _

Fleur leaned in, and Hermione stopped thinking completely.


End file.
